


Massage

by sleep



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleep/pseuds/sleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift gives Ratchet's hands a massage after a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Massage

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing NSFW to see here. Nope. Just some SFW hand-massaging. 100% not interfacing-related in any way. Yep.  
> For Ceryskitty; I hope you like it!

Another long shift was finished, and Ratchet was tired; his joints ached, his pedes hurt from spending so long without sitting down, and he wished for nothing more than a berth to lie down on, and at least a couple cycles of undisturbed recharge.   
  
Entering his habsuite, he was graced by the sight of Drift sitting on Ratchet's berth. Drift immediately sprung up and leapt over to Ratchet, pressing a kiss to his faceplates, letting his hands creep over weary shoulders, finding seams and wires. Ratchet sunk into his arms, letting himself be led towards the berth, for once relenting control.   
  
Drift broke the kiss and released his shoulders, only a string of saliva still connecting them. “Tired?” Ratchet simply nodded. “Want a massage?” A low rumble reminiscent of a purr came from Ratchet's engines, and he extended his hands.   
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Drift accepted the offered hands, laying them in his lap. Picking one up, he then proceeded to massage it. Small circles, pats, and strokes eased the ache away, replacing it with a sensation of calm and delight.   
  
Drift's nimble hands enveloped his, his palms kneading the medic's hands, while his fingers traced seams, a warmth spreading from the touches, through his hands and up his arms. Then the hand was dropped, and the other picked up.   
  
Drift began the same procedure with it, and Ratchet sighed a tranquil sigh. Medic-hands were famously sensitive, and Drift was both fluent in speaking hand, and very good at massaging. The resulting combination was that Drift could play him like a fiddle if he got a hold of Ratchet's hands, his nervecircuits bending to his will, sending pings of delight to the rest of his body at Drift's command.   
  
Drift then let go of his hand – far too soon – only to lift it up to his mouth, extending his glossa, and slowly starting to lick. He took a hold of the first hand with his own again, massaging it in his lap while his glossa swept over already stimulated spots, tracing the complex inner workings of the hand, following the pattern of seams. Ratchet shivered visibly, his fans started running audibly, and he felt a warm, sticky sensation pooling in his abdomen.  
  
Drift smiled, and surrounded one of the fingers with his mouth, his soft glossa wrapping around it. His head bobbed up and down, his tongue lapping on the red finger, and his lips dragging along the most sensitive spots. Drift distanced his head for a moment, allowing another finger to enter, for then to proceed with his ministrations.   
  
His glossa parted the fingers, dipping to the base and slowly gliding back to the tips. Ratchet panted lightly, the stimulus from the wet glossa mixing with the way his other hand was kneaded from the continued massage. Drift lightly pulled on the fingers in his lap, and let another finger enter his mouth. His mouth was starting to be quite full, but he remained undeterred. The new finger was immediately engulfed in the warm entrance, and lathered in saliva, joining the others in the action.   
  
Drift hummed contently, causing a throbbing, pleasant sensation to flow through the hand inside him, rippling through Ratchet's sensory net. Drift pulled away for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, then returned, this time letting four fingers enter him. The fingers disappeared into the soft, warm, darkness, and Drift went back to lapping at the fingers. He would occasionally swallow around them, draining his saliva from the cracks and nooks he would otherwise be unable to access.  
  
When Drift next pulled off, Ratchet heard himself utter a sharp gasp followed by a quiet whimper, as cold air met his wet and overstimulated fingers, new pings running through his body. Drift breathed out warm air at them, but still moved on to the so far neglected thumb, leaving the others to dry. He lowered his mouth over the protruding digit, directing all of his attention to the single finger.   
  
He swivelled his glossa around the tip while softly sucking, drawing a series of moans out of Ratchet. Drift traced small circles down the thumb in his hands, causing a similar sensation rippling pleasant waves through Ratchet, sucking and massaging until the warmth in the medic's abdomen suddenly dispersed, and he moaned loudly as additional pleasure rippled through him, whimpering a low “thank you.”  
  
Drift let go of both of his hands, and watched as Ratchet shivered through his aggregated pleasure. Drift smiled, kissed each of Ratchet's palms once, and then promptly laid down on the berth, gesturing for Ratchet to come recharge with him.   
  
Ratchet climbed up after Drift, cuddling close into his back. A few moments passed in silence, while a small puddle of sticky liquid slowly formed under them, eventually becoming too obvious to ignore. Drift finally addressed it, innocently noting, “Ratchet, I think that is coming from your val-”   
  
Ratchet cut him off with a cough, and clung a little tighter to him. “Silence please, I'm trying to recharge here.” Drift smiled and grinded his aft into Ratchet's crotch, curling up in front of him.  
  
“Okay, but _you're_ cleaning that up tomorrow.”   
  
Ratchet kissed his back, and murmured some kind of acceptance, before drifting off into a happy recharge.   
  
  


 


End file.
